


Chances

by Victorionious



Series: V's Round 7 H/C Bingo [5]
Category: Grey's Anatomy
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Gun Violence, Major Character Injury, Regret, [smacks derek across the face with mark mattering]
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-09-23
Packaged: 2018-08-16 20:19:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8116087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Victorionious/pseuds/Victorionious
Summary: Derek always thought he'd have another chance to make things right with Mark. So he put it off, and put it off, and put it off. After the phone call he didn't answer, he wonders if he waited too long and missed his chance.





	

**Author's Note:**

> hahahaha sorry. So many thanks to my good pal FeathersMcStrange for their unwavering support and amazing suggestions.
> 
> Also using this for h/c bingo - wildcard with the prompt "hospital stay."

Mark could be dead. Mark could be dead and the last thing Derek would have said to him in life was a specially manufactured insult, designed to cut Mark specifically, for no reason other than he’d had a shitty day.

He’d been attacked – mugged, caught in a crossfire, random act of violence? Derek didn’t know. Mark had been attacked, shot, was bleeding out on the pavement in some forgotten alley, last thoughts only of calling for help – calling _Derek_ for help, and why didn’t he answer the phone? Not in the mood for Mark’s rambling, that hopeful-yet-hopeless voice, the one that screamed “please, care about me,” and the biting tension growing within him as he clung steadfast to offenses that were honestly, deep down, long since forgiven, as he refused to move forward because, despite everything, when it came to Mark he couldn’t get his head out of the past –

A rambling message, short of breath, half-formed apologies that never needed to be said (it’s not your fault you were shot, it’s not your fault you were dying and wanted to hear the voice of your so-called best friend, _none of this is your fault)_ , description of his assailants, partial license plate, clear and terrifying assessment of injuries, clattering as he loses the strength to hold the phone, whispery noise on each inhale, implications of a punctured lung, and Mark didn’t have long, not at all.

Derek listened to the voice message 5 minutes after it was sent. His house phone rang 10 minutes after that – and it’s Lexie Grey, stuttering her way through an explanation, “I’m so sorry to bother you, I know you’re not on call but it’s not work, it’s Mark, it’s not good, and you’re his emergency contact and I know you two are close, at least, I’m pretty sure I know that you two are close, and you need to get here right now, Dr. Shepherd, it’s not good, it’s really not good.”

Cell phone on the floor, one hand over his mouth, other holding the house phone, he nodded before remembering he had to use his voice, confirming that he’d be there, he’d be there, and no, he didn’t need a cab, he could make it, thank you.

But maybe he should’ve had someone else drive, had Lexie grab someone, send someone to pick him up, because all he could think about was that Mark had called him and he hadn’t picked up. Derek was his emergency contact, and he didn’t know why that surprised him so much. It wasn’t like there was anyone else.

And there wasn’t. Anyone else.

It was a realization Derek had been running from for years. Mark was up there on his list of most important people, topped only by Addison, once, then Meredith. But Mark’s? It wasn’t selfishness that led Derek to admit that he knew he headed Mark’s list by miles; his name would be written in big, bold letters, size 48 font.

The sicker feeling came not long after, the one that was a side effect of knowing everyone who is anyone at Seattle Grace, and how shallow and cliquey the hospital had become – no one had Mark on their lists of important people, no one but him. He barely registered, for all that he’d done over the years. There was nobody who worried about him, who made sure he was okay, even as he flitted from drama to drama, offering advice and an ill-appreciated shoulder in his way.

There was a time when taking care of Mark Sloan was Derek’s job, a role he filled happily. Then, everything went to hell in a handbasket, and hating Mark Sloan became his new calling. Then, Meredith happened, and Addy came back, and Mark came back, and Addy left, and Meredith died, but then she didn’t, and then he and Mark reunited, and then he and Meredith were together, and then they weren’t, and then Rose happened, and somehow, amidst all the drama, he’d forgotten to start caring about Mark again – he’d forgotten to stop acting like he hated him, when he really didn’t, not anymore.

He’d forgotten something so simple, but so essential, and now he might never have a chance to fix his mistake.

Derek contemplated pulling over, as he wiped his eyes frantically with one hand, feeling his breathing speed up, but decided against it. Mark was waiting. Unless he wasn’t.

And that was the thing that threw Derek off more than anything, more than the call, Mark’s voice as it shook from the strain, the fact that he’d called _Derek_ \- it was the thought that he might _never see Mark again_.

Mark was always there. Even when Derek had run away from him, he’d followed. Mark stayed, like a dog that got kicked over and over but chomped at the bit whenever the slightest kindness was shown. He could insult him to his face and the man would smile, grin like he’d won a million bucks, if Derek so much as implied there would be a tomorrow.

There might not be a tomorrow.

Derek did have to pull over, this time.

He lost what was left of his lunch on the side of the freeway, sobbing so hard he wondered if he’d be able to see, after. He pulled himself together as quickly as possible, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket, and climbing back into his car. It had been seven minutes that he’d sat there, feeling every breath like it was lined with sandpaper, like with each beat of it his heart would leap out of his chest, and all he could think was that in those seven minutes Mark’s heart could have stopped altogether.

Derek drove.

40 minutes after Mark called, Derek arrived at the hospital. And there was Meredith, all but catching him as he fell out of his car, “He’s still alive,” the first words crossing her lips. Then, “Are you alright, Derek?”

He let out a laugh, harsh and bitter, then immediately regretted it as Meredith flinched. “Does it matter?” he said anyway, unable to bring himself to stop now that the realization had been made. Meredith’s small gasp only further cementing it, the fact that somehow _his_ well-being was more important than Mark’s, that it was his emotional state that mattered, not the fact that his best friend was on an operating table. He wished he’d remembered that Mark was his best friend sooner.

Meredith opened her mouth after a moment of hesitation, but Derek shook his head. “Where is he? Who’s operating?”

She blinked in surprise, thrown off on the tangent that Derek could actually see building in her head, but explained, “OR 3, Bailey and Hunt. Derek,” she grabbed his arm as he tried to dart away, “Derek, you can’t-”

“I know!” he snapped, then winced as she flinched again. “Sorry, I just - I _know_ , but I can’t just-”

“I know,” she replied, softly. She slid her hand into his and led him to the waiting room. It wasn’t a walk he’d taken especially often, in this capacity. Oh, he’d gone to deliver news, be it good or bad, to anxiously waiting family members but it wasn’t often him, doing the waiting. It didn’t feel real.

“Sit,” she said, and it didn’t take much to get him to comply. “I’m going to walk away for like, five minutes, to grab coffee and snacks. If you are not here when I get back so help me I’m… calling… someone. I don’t know. Just don’t move.”

He didn’t think he could if he’d wanted to.

Whenever he felt connected to himself enough to think, it was of Mark, of all those nights the man - then a boy - had spent over his house, practically one of his siblings, the shitty baby brother he’d always wished for as a child and then, miraculously, received. And what had he done with that gift? Thrown it away like so much garbage at the first sign of trouble. And now what?

He came back to himself when he felt a warm styrofoam cup being placed in his hands. He looked down at it, for a moment, at the dark liquid swirling inside, and slowly registered that it was coffee. From Meredith. Meredith had gone to get coffee. He looked up, and there she was. Derek’s mind felt sluggish, in a way that would’ve scared him, if he had the capacity to feel scared about anything other than, well.

 _Mark_.

The coffee rippled in the cup, and it took him a moment to realize it was because his hands were shaking. Meredith noticed the same time that he did, and carefully removed the cup from his hands, placing it on the end table next to where they sat.

Derek laughed again, a hollow sound that chilled Meredith’s heart. “He called me.”

“He what? Who? Owen?”

“Mark.”

“When?”

“When we were teenagers.”

Meredith blinked. “Okay.”

Derek smiled, but it was the one that went with the laugh. No substance behind it, nothing of _Derek_ , not any Derek that Meredith knew. “Did you know he’s always been terrified of being alone?”

She didn’t know what to say, so she didn’t say anything.

“He used to make up all these excuses, any excuse, to come over my house when his-” and he laughed again, so harshly, almost spitting as he continued, “-when those… _people_ who dared to call themselves his _parents_ fucked off to who the hell knows where. They never deserved him,” and it’s almost to himself, not meant for Meredith’s ears, but she heard it anyway, “ _I_ don’t deserve him.”

She had nothing to say to that, either.

“He left me a voicemail,” and Meredith can’t quite convince herself the noise Derek makes is anything but a sob.

“When you were teenagers?”

Derek glanced up at the clock. “About an hour ago.”

Meredith felt something very cold and very solid drop into her gut. “Oh,” she said, for lack of any better words. “Well.”

“I didn’t answer it, when he called. I listened to the message five minutes after he left it.”

“Oh.”

He looked at her, then, making eye contact for the first time since he’d arrived. “If he d-,” he stuttered, voice breaking, “If he _dies_ , the last thing he’ll remember was being _alone_.”

Meredith had seen the breakdown coming a mile away, and that was it for Derek. Hot, heavy tears fell down his cheeks, and his breath came in sharp inhales. Meredith pulled him into a crushing hug and he held onto her like a life raft. It felt like her arms were the only things keeping the jagged pieces of him together, like otherwise he’d be scattered across the floor like so many shards of glass. He felt fragile and thin like he hadn’t since- well, like he hadn’t in a very long time. He clenched his eyes shut against the flood, and _felt. Everything._ Every feeling he’d been holding back to the best of his limited ability washed over him and pushed him to his knees, Meredith the only thing keeping him from being swept away from the force of it. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t see, his heart was beating so fast he couldn’t even feel it, and he was sure he was dying, except it would _never_ be that easy for him.

When he surfaced long enough to take a breath, the only words he could say were “I’m sorry.”

* * *

Derek has made hard phone calls. He’s made many hard phone calls. He’s had to deliver worse news than this, to worse people, but nothing he’d ever done could have prepared him for this. Maybe if he’d been older, when his dad- but it really didn’t do to think about _that_ , not when Mark was spread out on an operating table, his friends’ hands and the machines he’d come to rely on so much the only things keeping him breathing.

His phone shook in his hands, and with some difficulty, he managed to dial the first on the list of numbers he knew he’d have to call before the day was out. It rang twice before a chipper tone answered, “Yello!”

“Addy-” Derek started, voice already wrecked, but, there was nothing to be done about that, not now.

“Yeah, I know, it was horrible, never do it again, I was just trying a thing, okay.” A pause. “What’s up?”

“Addison,” he tried again, but the words he had to say stuck in his throat.

“Hey,” she said, voice sobering. “What’s wrong? I can hear it your voice, there’s _something_ wrong.”

“I- I left him alone,” is all Derek could force out, and then the words came spilling, “He was _alone_ , Addy, and now he’s-”

“Derek, what’s going on?” Panic, familiar panic, in her voice, and Derek hated himself for causing it, for causing all of this.

“It’s Mark, he was, Mark was-” and Derek couldn’t say the words, not now, not for anything, and then the sobs take over, and he couldn’t even make out the frantic questions Addy was asking, shouting. Meredith took the phone from him before he dropped it, and he could hear her answering Addy’s questions in hushed tones.

_“Three hours ago-”_

_“No, he’s still alive, in surgery-”_

_“Twice, upper chest, punctured lung-”_

_“He called Derek, when it happened.”_

_“No, he’s about the furthest I’ve ever seen him from okay-”_

_“See you in a few hours.”_

Meredith ended the call with a shaky sigh, putting her phone back in her pocket, and starting to walk back across the waiting room to where Derek sat, hands clasped and shaking in his lap. She hadn’t had the chance to sit down when the waiting room door opened, and Miranda peered in, gesturing with a jerk of her head for Meredith to follow her. Not breaking stride, she did so, patting Derek once on the shoulder as she went. He was too far gone to notice.

They closed the door behind them, and Meredith leaned against it. “Is he-”

“He’s alive,” Miranda said, her voice unsteady like she was just as surprised as Meredith was. “It was close, he coded once but we brought him back. He’s a strong little shit, I’ll give him that.” Her smile was small, forced but fond nevertheless, and Meredith knew exactly where it was coming from. Mark wasn’t hard to care about.

“Good.”

Miranda glanced out the window to the waiting room behind Meredith, frowning. “Derek’s taking it pretty hard,” she observed. “Thought those two were still on the outs.”

“They are. That’s why Derek’s taking it so hard,” Meredith explained, following Miranda’s gaze over her shoulder. “He assumed he’d have forever to deal with things. He’s realizing there’s no such thing as forever.”

Miranda hummed her agreement. “Nobody has forever,” she said, and pushed her way past Meredith and into the waiting room.

“Hey, Shepard, get your head out of your ass,” she snapped, crouching in front of him. He didn’t look up, and she waved a hand in front of his face until she finally got his attention. “Sloan’s alive, and in recovery.”

Derek gaped at her, like the words weren’t quite processing in his mind. They probably weren’t. Miranda sighed and stood up, only to sit down in the chair next to him. “He’s alive, for now,” she repeated, “He's _alive_ , and let me tell you something, he’s alive because _my hands_ stitched him back together, piece by piece. You had better _treat_ that life well, Derek Shepherd, or _you’ll_ be the one in surgery.” She stood once again, and walked past a shell-shocked Meredith, shooting a quick “Make sure that boy eats something,” over her shoulder as she left the room.

**Author's Note:**

> Please care about my son, Mark. (This is far from over btw.)


End file.
